


Failure We Could Help

by imperfectkreis



Series: Monuments [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Dirty Talk, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 22:47:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5266718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why Danse approves so much when the sole survivor uses the armor workbench.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Failure We Could Help

The sky is clearer than it's been in weeks, the blue of the atmosphere piercing through the irradiated clouds that have been choking the sky. Moments like this give Danse hope that this world is still worth saving. That it’s salvageable. For all the treachery that men have committed against each other, the planet will forgive them. In time.

Weiss wants to stop at a nearby settlement under Minutemen protection. Danse doesn't always approve of the amount of time they divert to helping the locals in small ways like this. But on principle, he knows that Weiss is doing good work, even if it isn't directly part of the Brotherhood’s greater plan. Organizations like the Minutemen will be able to aid the Brotherhood a great deal, once the Institute has been dealt with.

They arrive, Weiss listening with complete attention to a battered looking settler who explains how one of their number has been kidnapped by mutants. Danse’s stomach churns with rage. Weiss tries his best to soothe them, promising that their loved one will be returned unharmed. He shouldn't make such promises, he doesn't know for sure what he will find. But he can promise to do his best. That will always be true.

“We’ll leave soon,” Weiss explains to Danse, “I need to work on my armor first. The chest piece is cracked.”

Danse nods, sparing a cursory glance at the rest of Weiss’ patched together combat armor. “I still believe it would be best if you wore the power armor.”

“I told you,” Weiss lights up a cigarette, blowing the smoke away from Danse. He knows how the Paladin dislikes the habit. “It doesn't fit. I'm too tall.”

And Danse has told him before, several times, that they can acquire a larger set. But that's not really what this is about.

Danse knows Weiss is a wonderful recruit. Rough around the edges, but perfect for the Brotherhood, he's intelligent and loyal, wants, desperately, to make this world better. Danse only needs to push him, show him the way. But Weiss is still skeptical, hedging his bets. He needs to be devoted to Dan-the Brotherhood, for this to really work.

Carelessly, Weiss drops his armor pieces in a pile by the side of the workbench, preparing himself to tinker. While they're in the settlement, Danse releases the valve on his armor, stepping out of the suit. He’d thought it was only hot on the inside, but the day is actually quite warm. Even in just his undersuit, it's too hot. He stretches his arms over his head, trying to work out the stiffness from being confined to a limited range of motion.

Rifling through boxes strewn about outside the shack, Weiss finds the components he needs to make repairs. He spreads them out in neat lines across the bench: Screws, plastics, steel plates, glue.

“There's more steel around back, if you need?” Weiss offers. But there's no power armor station for Danse to make repairs. Besides, he prefers to let the specialists do their job, rather than hack together repairs himself. Instead, he sits in the grass, watching Weiss work. 

Weiss completes the bulk of his repairs, at least the soldering bits. Sweat soaks through his vault suit at the armpits first. When Weiss puts the blowtorch away, Danse can hear him unzipping the front of his suit. Weiss pulls his arms out, wrapping them around his waist and tying them off, hiding the mark of ‘111’ that the citizens of the Commonwealth have come to know him by. Running a hand through the front of his hair, Weiss gets back to work.

The temperature of the Commonwealth must've gone up twenty degrees in the ten seconds it takes Weiss to deal with his suit. Danse should look away, he shouldn't stare. Weiss is his subordinate, at least as far as the Brotherhood is concerned. In his heart, he knows the situation is more complicated than that. And he can't really come to terms with it. Waffling on either side is no better. Is it bad enough he has such thoughts? Worse yet that sometimes it's more than just thoughts.

Weiss continues working, with little, fiddly things, screws here or there, gluing back down loose corners. His hair is tied up high, curls poking out, trying to escape. His haircut, or lackthereof, is ridiculous. But tying it up means that Danse can watch as sweat runs down the back of Weiss’ neck, less tanned than the rest of him, since it's usually covered by hair.

In time, Weiss’ singlet is soaked through as well, clinging to his back and trim waist. Danse is somewhat surprised that his body is as defined as it is, his arms firmly muscular, though still without bulk. Before this, before the bombs, he was a soldier, but only briefly. Weiss introduces himself as a lawyer. He spins the truth well enough.

Danse knows full well he's staring. He wishes he could stop. But instead, he watches as Weiss leans over the table, his pants pulling tight around his hips and thighs. Danse’s stomach constricts. He puts his laser rifle over his lap, shielding his body’s reaction to Weiss’ ministrations. 

Weiss starts humming, he can never be quiet for long. Normally, he would be trying to drag Danse into a conversation he doesn't want to have. About Danse’s childhood, or his service, or his dreams for the future. Weiss always wants to know everything. Danse doesn't want to talk. Or he doesn't want to remember. Something like that.

“You're awful quiet, big guy.” Weiss finally talks.

Danse doesn't like the nickname, since strictly speaking, Weiss is taller. The name doesn't even make sense. 

“I could say the same about you.”

Weiss cocks his hip to one side, rubbing his grease covered hand on the other. “Thought maybe you were napping.”

Reaching for the hem of his singlet, Weiss strips, now naked from head to waist. Danse can't stop his breath from hitching. It's pathetic. He wishes he wouldn't be...so enamored. So enamored and so helpless to act.

Oh, they've acted before. Well, Weiss has. In the dead of night, in strange and familiar beds. Sometimes Weiss crawls in beside him, kisses him breathless, running long fingers over top of their nightclothes. Danse doesn't let them go any further. It wouldn't be right. It's already not right. Weiss is always gone by morning. They're cold and alone in their own cots.

But it feels right. Oh, it feels so right.

Weiss leaves what he's doing, flopping down onto his back in the grass next to Danse. His dark hair fans out like a halo around his head. Danse watches as his chest rises and falls. His skin is warm, so warm Danse can feel it without touching him. The slick of sweat still clinging, almost catching the light.

“What have you been thinking about?”

Danse can't answer, ‘you,’ ‘us,’ ‘everything.’ Instead, he wraps his arms around his bent knees and says, “Nothing.”

“So I'll tell you what I was thinking about,” Weiss says cheerily.

“You should have been thinking about how to repair your armor,” Danse mumbles.

Weiss doesn't respond to that. “I was pretending that you were watching me work. Getting all hot and bothered over here, watching me strip.” 

Danse can hear the bloom of a smile in Weiss’ voice.

“Was thinking about you coming up behind me, putting your hands all over me. Raking and clawing your nails over my chest. Bending me over the table and sticking your cock in me.” Weiss throws one arm over his face to shield his eyes from the sun. “But then I remembered, you're not that sort of man, are you? And that's maybe, maybe, one of the things I like about you.” Weiss rolls over onto his belly, crashing into Danse’s side in the process.

Danse grips the rifle in his lap hard enough to turn his knuckles white,

“Why don't you lay down next to me?”

Danse’s breath is ragged, but he sets the rifle aside. If Weiss notices how hard Danse has already gotten, he doesn't mention it. The padded undersuit keeps Danse’s skin from making too much contact with the grass, or with Weiss.

“There you are,” Weiss smiles, threading his arm under Danse’s head to hold the back of his neck. 

“We shouldn't be doing this.” Danse’s mouth is stopped up with all the moments he's wanted to kiss Weiss first.

“Why not? Why fight it?” He taps his fingers against Danse’s spine.

Danse presses forward, taking initiative for once, joining their lips, chapped, maybe, from traveling and wind, but warm and solid. Promises of that better world the sky overhead keeps telling him exists swirl in his head. Only, they have to make it. Have to fight for it. Not against.


End file.
